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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045803">A Conversation with a Poet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutrig/pseuds/nutrig'>nutrig</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Requiem Of Roses, AROR, Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Mentioned Abuse, Non-Graphic Violence, altair isnt actually in it but he is mentioned??, future!harp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:22:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045803</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutrig/pseuds/nutrig</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harp Albiron recalls his abusive relationship with ex Hadrian - the god of death.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>altairxharp, altarp, hadrianxharp, hadriarp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Conversation with a Poet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hadrian belongs to the lovely @Dem0n1x3.<br/>Also, this story literally got me into my dream university so don't let anybody tell you DnD is a waste of time :)))</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A hunched figure sits on a dingy bar stool, hand gripping onto a small glass. Inside, a golden brown poison. It tasted like acidic piss, but Harp Albiron couldn’t care less. Under dark eyes are darker circles, but on his face is anything but a tired expression. He was alert, tan skin crawling with anxiety. “His name was Hadrian.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hadrian?” Liatris crosses her legs and leans forward, tucking a strand of slick black hair behind an ear. “Named after the god of death?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not named after,” he replies, looking down at his glass. “I met him for the first time at his temple. Standing in ashen robes at his altar, his skin was a royal purple. Like thunderstorms… it would get darker when he was angry. Lavender when he was happy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. “I’ve heard things about Hadrian… things he would do to his servants. To think you were one of them… famous Harp Albiron. Poet, musician, author, investigator. The god of death’s pet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp scoffs, shaking his head. “My reputation proceeds me. All I’ve ever been is flawed. Nothing more.” He continues… “I came to his temple to apologise – I had accidentally killed a raven, his sacred animal. I offered up a sacrifice, but he didn’t accept it. Have you ever peered into a god’s eyes before, Liatris?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman shook her head. She wasn’t much younger than the poet; late twenties, at most. Her hair was cut short, hugging her face, and behind warm brown eyes was an unnervingly curious mind. “No, I can’t say that I have,” she replies. “What was it like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was staring at death, what do you think it was like? It was intoxicating. My legs turned to lead; my face lost all colour. He left me shivering. I returned to the temple the next day. It was like I was already addicted.” Harp lowers his glass on the bar counter and runs his scarred hands through auburn brown hair. His shoulders slump as he looks over to Liatris. “I think he knew that I’d come back. He wanted me to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liatris takes another sip. “Was it abusive from the start?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. “The day we made the deal – I told him he could do anything to me, and in return, he would help me. I had blocked memories, from my past. He was going to return them to me. I became his – entirely. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>pet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Harp spits the last word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few meters from them both erupted a roar – a group of obnoxious men were playing at the billiards table. She shoots them a look of annoyance, and then turns back to the poet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, why’d you do it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp takes the final swig of his whiskey, and the bartender pours him a refill without a word. “I already told you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could have gone to anyone; there are many gods that could’ve returned your memories.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp twirls his glass in his hand. “… I was looking for trouble. For punishment. There’s no relationship like the one between a man that hates himself and a god that loves despair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liatris nods. “I see. Well, go on. What did he want from you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What didn’t he want? I’ve committed many atrocities because of him. Despicable things. To myself, and to others.” The memories are still sharp in his mind. Scars committed by gods never fade, after all. “He’d bring me into his realm. Nothing but darkness, all around. Walking in there was like walking in the night sky. I was convinced I would come back alive. But nobody enters a black hole and comes back out alive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He would play with me. Tell me I was his favourite, that he was in love with me. And when I would tell him I loved him, too, he would always say the same thing, his smooth voice like sugar wax. ‘No, you don’t.’”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Two sets of hollow eyes. Harp’s an onyx black, Hadrian’s an emerald green. Bodies in a dance of death, not a step out of place. Death, the taller of the two, with his hands snaked around Harp’s waist. The bittersweet symphony of an organ, unlike any song the musician had heard or sung before. Hadrian led, and it felt like they were walking on air.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘I love the way your lips taste,’ he would purr. ‘Delicious misery.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> He’d comb Harp’s hair as they sat in bed, in silken bedsheets that rubbed against their legs. Silken bedsheets that Harp worshipped.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Good,’ Harp would reply, sitting with legs crossed as he’d be pampered. ‘I have a lot of misery inside of me… and nothing to do with it.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’d praise me. Tell me I was all he ever needed. But as soon as I fucked up… which I did a lot… he would punish me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Filthy. Disgusting. Whore.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Chains wrapped around Harp’s wrists, around his neck. He’s thrown against a wall. Blind and immobile, the poet could only suffer, and beg. Oh, how he’d beg. The words poured out from between his lips like blood from a stab wound.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘I didn’t mean it. I promise. You’re my everything, I </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>love</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> you! She was nothing, I swear!’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The same words repeated again and again. ‘I was thinking of you the whole time! It meant nothing to me – a moment of weakness!’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes he’d drown me. Sometimes flog me. Sometimes, all I needed to see was his face, full of grief. And I would regret everything. Not because I was scared of punishment, but because… I never wanted to hurt him. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> believed it was love. I had no idea what else it could be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another roar of victory from the billiards table. Harp glances back, and sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shall we head somewhere more private? Maybe the docks?” suggests Liatris with a tilt of her head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp nods, before stumbling to his feet. He takes out a fifty from his pocket, and hands it to the bartender before leading the way out the noisy building.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The moon had long risen, hiding behind thick clouds. The sides of the streets are lined with dirty snow, and in the air lingers a bitter chill. Blowing breaths of fog, the two writers shrug on their coats. They begin walking down the back alley street, the heels of both their shoes clicking on the ground. In the distance, a raven caws, perched upon a glowing streetlight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liatris takes out a packet of cigarettes from her coat and offers one to the poet. He shakes his head. “I don’t smoke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman shrugs. “Colour me surprised. I’d think after everything you’d have picked up all sorts of bad habits.” She fiddles with her lighter for a moment before pressing the flame to the end of the tube. Liatris takes a drag, and exhales away from Harp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cigarette smoke is bad for your voice,” he replies. “That’s why I never took it up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your voice… that’s something you hold dear, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp takes a deep breath, inhaling the salty bayside air. “The only part of myself I never got sick of.” His breath comes out foggy. “It was the one part of me Hadrian never hurt. He loved it as much as I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, was he ever in love with you?” she inquires, her pale nose flushing red from the cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In his own way.” Harp rubs his hands together to warm himself up, fruitlessly. “What Hadrian felt… was warped. It wasn’t loving the way you and I know and experience it. But it was all he was capable of. Every time he’d embrace me, he would hurt instead. I don’t think he knew what he was doing to me. He loved me for my bad qualities more than my good. He tried to love, but never tried to improve me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Liatris nods slowly, stepping carefully around slippery stones. “How long did it take for you to leave him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Longer than it should have.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘</span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>I will make you love me.</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Harp couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He was trapped… and all he could do was abuse the one in control of him with his mind. He opened the floodgates and tried his best to hurt his master.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘You don't know love. You've never experienced it. And neither have I. The mind can only do what it knows. You know death, so you kill. I know music, so I sing. But we do not know love,’ Harp thought… for thinking was all he could do. ‘You told me yourself that I don't love you... and the first time I said it I saw you break. I saw you break every time. That's why I kept saying it. I am done, Hadrian. Aren't you?’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Harp could feel Hadrian’s wrath burn with every word. Unable to move, the god’s voice rang in his head.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Fine, you want to be rid of me so badly? Let’s fix your memories.’ </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And something warped in Harp’s mind… his burns, cuts, and bruises… the mutilation of his skin… it was never Hadrian that abused him. It was never Hadrian that chained him up. He only ever embraced him, kissed him, loved him. He only ever spoiled Harp… for he was a pet worth spoiling rotten to the core.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>All the musician felt towards Hadrian was warmth. All he knew them to have was a sickly sweet love.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Harp adored it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was going to leave him, so he warped my memories,” explains the musician. They turn a corner into another street, reaching the docks. Harp leads them both to a seat, and sighs tiredly as he sits. “I believed that all the pain he had put me through was caused by someone else entirely. His realm became my home. I worshipped him once again… and he promised me that he would never let me go.” Harp laughs bitterly. Grief hovers behind his eyes. Cynicism in the gaps between his words. His smile is humourless. “I lived under those false memories for much too long.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did he hurt you again, after he changed your memories?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The poet shook his head. “No, but… did it matter? The damage was done.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose not,” Liatris agrees, before taking another drag of her cigarette. “What happened after that? How’d your memories fix?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The man he claimed hurt me was, at the time, an acquaintance of mine. Altair Vega. He was missing for a while, but eventually I met him again. I treated him like gum on my shoe until he proved himself to me. Eventually, it clicked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Altair? Your husband?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp chuckles softly. “The irony is unmatched, I know. But he was unlike anybody I’d ever met before. Charming, kind, soft. He was kind to me, even when I was cursing his name. I realised that… he could never have been the man that drowned me in a bathtub, or mutilated me, or chained me up and threw me across the room like a doll.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, you’re happy with him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp’s eyes stare at the waves that crash against the edge of the docks. He nods. “Happier than I ever was with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Next to him, Liatris manages a soft laugh. Her body ripples, and her form shifts, until she’s turned into a man. Tall, with skin the colour of violet thunderstorms. His hair cascades down his back, electric green gaze never parting from Harp. He’s wearing a black waistcoat suit. Hadrian tosses the cigarette onto the ground, and stomps on it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long have you known?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Since you called me ‘death’s pet.’ You’re the only one who ever used that word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ever the investigator,” Hadrian purrs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It comes with the ingrained distrust,” retorts Harp. “I have you to thank for that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hadrian tuts, shaking his head slowly. “You never gave yourself enough credit, pet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp scoffs. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be heading home. To my husband.” He intentionally avoids Hadrian’s eyes. He knew he’d only find anguish inside them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s nothing else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp stands up, relieved. He rubs his hands together again and takes a step.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harp?” Hadrian’s voice was always gentle as he said his name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The poet pauses. “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad you’re happy,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harp heaves another sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I’m sorry you’re not. Goodnight, Hadrian.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a moment of silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Harp.”</span>
</p>
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